


rapunzel, rapunzel

by erebones



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, Hair Brushing, Hair Washing, Long Hair, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 01:19:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16923891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: In the twilight of their adventuring years, Caleb lets his hair grow long.





	rapunzel, rapunzel

**Author's Note:**

> rating is for mild descriptions of violence. [SPOILERS] there is brief mentions of hand scarring per episode 44.

In the twilight of their adventuring years, Caleb lets his hair grow long. Fjord notices it one day when he’s climbing out of the bath in the rooms they share at the Nein’s estate: the water has made it darker than usual, hiding the threads of silver that glint at his temples, and it drips in long, auburn strands down his back and over his shoulders. He grabs it in his hands and twists the water out, and then he catches Fjord looking.

“What is it, _Schatz_? Did I miss a spot?”

Fjord presses his lips together and shakes his head, coming to cup Caleb’s bristly jaw in his hands. “ _Nein_ , my love. You just look particularly beautiful today, is all.”

Caleb gives him a sideways look under his lashes like he doesn’t quite believe him. But he lets the matter drop, taking Fjord’s hand in his and kissing the ugly, ropey scar across the palm. “Do me a favor and fetch me my comb?”

Fjord kisses the top of his head and moves to obey. When he returns, Caleb is sitting cross legged on the shag carpet in front of a roaring fire, stroking the sleeping cat in his lap. He wears a thin silk robe and nothing else, and his long, dark hair drips slowly in a blotchy pattern down his spine. Fjord drops to his knees behind him, a familiar motion—but this moment has no carnality to it, just soft intimacy, like the divots worn into a long-used sword hilt engraved over years and years of use.

“Tip your head back,” Fjord murmurs, fingers alighting at Caleb’s temples.

“Start at the bottom,” Caleb reminds him.

“Yeah, I know. I just wanted to—” He ducks down and kisses the center of his forehead. “All right. Now we can begin.”

Caleb laughs and shakes his head, and Fjord begins to work the comb through the damp ends of his hair.

//

His hair becomes curlier as it grows, not that most people could tell off-hand. In the same way that he keeps his glasses tucked away in an inside pocket, only removing them when he needs to inspect something closely, Caleb coils his hair into a tight knot at the back of his head to keep it out of the way. It only comes down when he and Fjord retire together in the evenings. He’ll sit in a chair or the edge of the bed and unwind it, releasing the snug tie until it spills in loose curls around his face.

Those are Fjord’s favorite evenings. Caleb bent over his spellbooks or his journal, hair falling in soft auburn waves against his cheek. Fjord is content just to watch him work—Caleb is oblivious to it, for the most part, and it calms him to see his lover so engrossed in his work.

Sometimes, if Caleb is especially weary, or recovering from a difficult battle, he’ll lay his head in Fjord’s lap and fall asleep as Fjord plays with his hair. He will trace the deepening grooves between Caleb’s brows with his thumb, and scratch his neatly-kept claws against his scalp until he hums and softens into sleep.

//

One day, the knot comes loose. Caleb takes a particularly hard blow from an enemy monk and goes flying across the battlefield, limbs splayed in every direction when he lands. Fjord doesn’t hear himself shouting, but he feels it later in the rawness of his throat, tastes it like blood on the back of his tongue.

When he finally makes it to Caleb’s side, the wizard’s breath is coming shallow in his chest and his eyes stare vacantly into the steel-grey sky. Stunned, but alive. His hair spills out against the bloodied ground like rivers of silver-touched wheat, unspooled in every direction.

He sees the fire, then. Creeping across the brittle grass like hungry tongues from Caleb’s firebolt gone awry. Fjord jumps to his feet to stamp it out and bellows with pain as a crossbolt shaves across the side of his face, burning a shallow groove along his cheek and taking a chunk of ear with it. He spins to deflect the next with a choking blast of eldritch power, and by the time he turns back around he can smell burnt hair and char. Caleb’s hair is on fire.

His knees slam against the hard ground and he pats the flames out frantically with hands that don’t feel the burn. By the time Caleb shakes off the stun and comes back to himself, blinking, the fire is gone, drenched in ice-cold saltwater.

“Fjord?” he whispers hoarsely, staring up at him with eyes gone a deep, brilliant blue in the soot-smudged surface of his face.

Fjord strokes a tangled strand away from his face and bends low, ignoring the heat of battle for just another moment. His lips meet Caleb’s brow and his fingers meet the charred, curled-up ends of hair that burned nearly to his shoulders.

“I’m with you,” Fjord whispers, and gets stiffly to his feet, sword drawn and dripping as he waits for the next volley.

//

Later that night, sitting together by the fire in the rooms they’ve taken at the local inn, Caleb reaches across the negligible space between their chairs and rests his hand on Fjord’s. The tangled web of scar tissue across his singed knuckles feels like a benediction.

“Thank you,” he says, out of the blue. Fjord tilts his head toward Caleb and tucks his thumb along the back of Caleb’s hand.

“For what?”

“Today. You saved me from my own vanity.” Caleb’s lips curl up, but he isn’t smiling. “I knew it was foolish, letting my hair grow so long. I knew… one of these days I was going to singe myself and it would go up like tar-paper. And now I have.”

Fjord hums and detangles their hands to reach out to tuck a singed lock of hair behind Caleb’s ear. “I don’t think you foolish _or_ vain, darlin’. Accidents happen. And I happen to like your hair long, but you’d look just as good with no hair at all.”

“Now there’s an idea. I spent _thirty-six minutes_ washing dried blood out of it today,” Caleb says, pained. “I should just have Beauregard shave it down, gods know it would be easier.”

“Yeah, well. Let’s not be hasty.” Fjord stands from his chair, joints creaking a little more than he’d like. “Tilt your chin up for me, sweetheart.”

Caleb obeys and settles his book face-down on his lap. Standing behind him, Fjord runs his fingers through the burnt, uneven edges and pulls the knife from his belt.

He keeps the blade well-honed. It only takes a minute or two for him to shear away the ruined bits of Caleb’s hair until it’s about jaw-length, springing readily into loose waves that glint golden in the firelight. Fjord tousels the top of his head. “There. Good as new.” He leans down and presses a kiss to Caleb’s weathered cheek. “Look at you. As boyish as the day we met.”

Caleb huffs a disbelieving laugh as he collects the cut hair in his hands and tucks it into a handkerchief for later disposal. “I was hardly boyish then, and I am hardly boyish now, my love.”

“Hmm. As handsome as ever, then.” Fjord tweaks his ear gently and returns to his seat. “It will grow back, you know.”

Caleb looks at him from under his brows. “I’m hardly distraught over this.”

“I know. I’m just sayin’. My vain little chickadee.” He reaches out and traces the swoop of his brow with a tender touch. “I’ll love you either way.”

Caleb shuts his eyes and leans into his touch, inviting the tender scrape of claws against his scalp. “Very well. As long as I continue to receive head rubs, I suppose I can put up with it.”


End file.
